Poetry
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley wants to write a poem for his husband for Valentine's Day. But after ruining several pages in his notebook, and with Anathema's help, he discovers that, when speaking from the heart, poetry is not necessarily required. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes: Written for the Ineffable Valentine's prompt poetry.**_

"House? No, no, that doesn't work. Mouse? _*grumble … grumble … grumble*_ _That_ sounds stupid! Louse? Oh yeah, helluv romantic blood eating parasites are …" Crowley attacks the page he's writing on with his eraser till his pencil nearly wears through. "Shit!" he mumbles when he tries writing over the spot and his pencil lead breaks. "Stupid cheap …!"

Anathema, sitting across from him at the tea table in Aziraphale's back room, watches Crowley do battle with his notebook, amused and sympathetic … but mostly amused.

"May I ask a question?" she interrupts.

"Wat?" he snaps.

"Why poetry?"

"Well, book girl, it's come to my attention that I give Aziraphale presents I think he would like instead of things he actually enjoys," he explains, glaring at Anathema since that particular lecture came from her after seeing Aziraphale's prized collection of iPads, laptops, cell phones, and eReaders, mint in their boxes, unopened and untouched. Aziraphale told her he treasures them because they're gifts from Crowley, but that he'd prefer a nice cannoli over the latest tech.

"_I _know that," she says with a smug smile that makes Crowley bare his fangs. "What I'm asking is why you decided to write him a poem?"

"'Cuz Aziraphale likes words," Crowley says, deciding to make due with the remaining stub of his writing utensil and return to his work. "Books and plays and things like that."

"So why not buy him a book?"

"I'm not sure there's any he wants that he doesn't own already." Crowley glances at the stacks and shelves around them, crammed full of hardcovers and leather bounds. "None that wouldn't require me breaking into a museum, _and I've been strictly forbidden to do that_." Crowley scowls at his page when he notices most of the white space smudged with graphite and the ghosts of words left over from constant erasing. He turns to a clean page, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "But apparently I _suck_ at poetry! I can't get anything to rhyme, so I keep repeating the same five words over and over again. And one of those is _the!_"

Anathema's brow furrows as she tries to think of even one word that rhymes with _the_ that someone would include in a romantic poem. "Wait a minute! I thought Aziraphale said the two of you inspired _Shakespeare_!"

"Yeah, but that's _Shakespeare_. Inspiring him was easy. Back then, the English language was only about two hundred words max. And he made up half the words he wrote. How important could it be if he's making shit up? This poem is a present for angel. It has to be … it has to be _perfect_."

"Well, I applaud you for at least attempting to do this for him," Anathema says, smiling at Crowley as if he were an adorable, stray puppy. "Poetry can be tricky if you're not used to writing it."

"And while I appreciate being applauded, I need your help! That's why I called you! I need to get this finished. Valentine's is _four days away_! I only get a few minutes here and there to work on it when angel pops out for a nibble. Speaking of which, he's going to be back with lunch in about …" Crowley checks the hulking watch monopolizing his wrist "… _ten minutes_!"

"Okay, then, for the sake of ease, let's not worry about making things rhyme. A poem doesn't have to rhyme in order for it to be good."

"Yeah, but the funny ones do. Like …" He grins like anything when a proper example pops into his head "… _There once was a man from North Ennis, whose left hand was shaped like a_ …"

"You're not writing limericks, Mr. Crowley!" Anathema rushes out before he can finish. _Thank goodness Newt couldn't come_, she thinks. Then she'd definitely be hearing the end of that bawdy rhyme. "You're expressing emotion, right? You want to tell him how you feel?"

"Yeah …"

"Let's try this. Pretend that you aren't writing a poem. If you were going to just come out and tell him how you feel, what would you say? Here …" She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone "… let me record you. This way if you come out with a gem or two, you won't forget."

"O-kay …" Crowley sits up straight, preparing for Anathema to ready her phone. She holds it up and gives him a nod, letting him know to begin "… I'd tell him …" Crowley pauses, gathering his thoughts together. Granted, they're easier to find when you're not linking them up with words like _louse_ "… I'd tell him I love him. That, uh … there isn't a day that goes by I don't think about him. Even when … when we were apart." He finds it distracting and uncomfortable to look at Anathema while he's saying these things, so he closes his eyes, focusing on the insides of his lids to help him concentrate. "I'd tell him 6000 years is an awful long time to exist without something to hope for. And he gave me that. Hope. Because being a demon, I don't normally have much of that. I get to be naughty, of course. Have a little fun. It's part of the job. But outside of that, there's really nothing to look forward to. But seeing him, even for a moment, was something I looked forward to. I'd tell him that the times I spent with him were the best of my life, even when all I was doing was rustling his feathers." Crowley laughs thinking of the times he dropped in on Aziraphale unannounced to pawn off some bullshit assignment to have an excuse to talk to him for five minutes.

Just five minutes.

But they'd end up being the most important five minutes of his decade.

"I'd tell him … I'd tell him that there is no me without him. Not any more. Not for a long time now. That's why I couldn't leave the planet without him. And when I went to his bookshop and saw it burning down, I …" Crowley's lips pinch together, his throat tight. He stops again, his voice fading with those words.

"You … what, Mr. Crowley?" Anathema coaxes gently.

"I didn't care about anything anymore. Not demons or angels, not doing my job, not this whole world. Because _my_ world … the one I loved … was gone. You know?"

Anathema doesn't know. Not really. But she nods anyway. "Yeah. I know."

"Look at me," Crowley sniffles, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes on his sleeve."Gettin' all weepy. And on video, too." He gestures to Anathema's phone. "How … how was that? I can't really think of anything else to say."

"That was … beautiful."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Anathema says, getting emotional herself. "I think … it was _perfect_. You don't have to turn it into a poem. You don't have to change a thing. Just show him this."

"Do you think he'll like it?"

"Yes." From behind them, a new voice, thick with tears, enters the conversation, from someone they didn't hear walk in, too wrapped up in Crowley's emotional monologue. Crowley turns towards it, sees blue eyes shimmering his way as Aziraphale clears his throat, wipes his eyes. "I believe so."


End file.
